Brother's Keeper
by Centuries-Past
Summary: What if Nate was shot instead of Sam? Warning: fluff and angst ensue. Cover art by Amanda J. Holm.
1. Sam's POV

Disclaimer: I do not own the Uncharted series. All rights go to Naughty Dog.

WARNING: There's descriptions of blood. If you're too squeamish then you know what to do. It's not anything too violent... I think.

*Ahem*- ENJOY!

* * *

He hears the bullets whizz pass his ear and slam into the concrete wall, mere inches away from hitting his face. Nathan's yanking him up by the arm with much difficulty and Sam doesn't blame him. Kid's lost a lotta weight in the past month and he's pretty sure the beating he took earlier weakened him a bit. On the bright side, they're finally getting the hell out of this shithole which means decent food and clothing await them.

Just as he finds his footing, that's when it happens.

As soon as he was getting ready to sprint, Nathan pushes him forward shielding his body from the guards aim. He hears the bastards fire and the sound of bullets lodging into his little brothers side. The _oh God_ dies in his throat as it clogs with pure horror. He'll never forget the way they make eye contact, the way Nathan's blue-grey eyes widen in shock with realization as his lips part with a surprised cough.

He grabs him before he hits the floor.

Adrenaline pumps through his veins as raw instinct kicks in. He's ignoring Rafe's demands to hurry up as he bends his knee, grabbing Nathan's right hand with his left and draping it over his shoulder. He squats and wraps his arm around the back of Nathan's right knee. He quickly hoist his brother over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, and he's doing his best to ignore the sensation of blood soaking his shoulder. All he knows right now is that they gotta move. He's sprinting as fast as his legs can take him, dodging the tree branches and tightening his grip so Nathan won't fall. His muscles protest at the amount of physical labor, but Sam ignores them and continues to run and jump right behind Rafe.

"Sam," Nathan whispers, and Sam's surprised his ears picked up the faint voice through the shooting and shouting, but he's glad Nathan's not unconscious. That's a big plus.

"You're gonna be alright," he breathes, reminding his brother and himself while picking up the pace. He had to be.

"We're approaching the end the of the cliff!" Rafe shouts in warning, "Get ready to slide down!"

Sam instinctively tightens his grip even further and begins to slide down the muddy path. His heart hammers in his chest when he watches Rafe disappear first down bellow before shortly following. The ball of nervousness in his gut expands as they slide closer and closer to the edge. When his mud caked shoes reach the end of the path, gravity takes full control as he and Nathan are propelled in the air.

" _Oh shiiiiiit!_ "

The wind roars in his ears and his heart feels like it lunges up to his throat when his grip on Nathan loosens. Nathan's screaming and he scrambles in the air for his arm. Too late. Their bodies slam into the cold water below and he ignores the panic that wells up in his chest as he searches in the deep blue for him. It doesn't really take a while to find him, but when you're underwater and your brother's shot and bleeding out, every second feels interminable. When Sam finally spots him, floating in the water, he's so damn relieved it's unexplainable. He swims towards Nathan. The need for air nudges his lungs from the free fall that has left him breathless. He wraps an arm around Nathan's torso and begins to swim upwards. He greedily sucks in the air and makes his way towards the boat.

He's extremely grateful it's not parked far way. When Sam reaches the end of the boat, he uses one arm to pull himself onto the washboard while still keeping his grip on Nathan. In one swift motion, he hauls his brother onto the board and he's once again reminded of just how light he his.

"Step on it, Rafe!" He shouts over his shoulder.

Sam quickly sits down on the platform, pulling Nathan to him before the boat has a chance to move. Good thing for his celerity or else they'd fall right back in the water.

He positions Nathan horizontally and cradles his head on his lap. When he gazes down, it's the first time he notices that his eyes are closed.

"Ah shit." He quickly shrugs off the blue prison uniform button up he wore over his shirt. Sam wrings it of excess water and bundles it tightly, pressing it on the wound. He represses the hysteria building up in his chest at the sight of blood gushing out of his brother's still form.

"Nathan?"

He places his free hand on the side of his cold damp face and he's firmly shaking him. He tries again a bit more desperately this time and swallows the lump that forms in his throat.

"Nathan?"

He watches his lashes flutter and lift slowly. Sam releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He's thanking God when he looks down into those blue eyes again. The boat suddenly rocks up and down causing Nathan to cry out in pain. Yep, the shock and adrenaline's _definitely_ worn off by now.

"Shh," he's saying while carding a hand through his wet strands. "You're okay Nathan. You're okay."

Sam watches him grit his teeth and groan in pain. He feels guilt wash over him like a tidal wave. He knows he can't dwell on it now, so he pushes it back and focuses on stemming the bleeding.

"Sam," Nathan grunts, breathing heavily through his nostrils. "Whe-

"Shush Nathan, don't talk. Save your strength." They can deal with questions later. All that matters now is preventing Nathan from passing out. His hand and the front of his shirt are completely stained with crimson. He's happy his hands are steady in contrast to his voice because he sounds as anxious as he feels.

"Just try to stay awake, alright?"

He presses down harder on the wound and nearly jumps out of his skin when Nathan's hand clamps on his arm. He feels a little guilty at that, worsening the pain, but it's a necessary evil. "I have to stop the bleeding," he assures him. Christ knows he's trying.

Suddenly, Nathan's slamming his hand away with his own and if Nathan wasn't shot, he'd slap him hard on the back of his head for making such a stupid move. The new wave of blood that gushes out from his side fuels both his fear and anger.

"The _hell_ are you doing? Stop!" He snaps angrily while slapping Nathan's hand away.

Sam watches him screw his eyes shut in pain. He makes these little wheezing noises in the back his throat like that of a wounded animal and he's breathing more heavily than before.

"Hurts," he groans.

That one word mollifies Sam because it's impossible for him to remain angry at Nathan while he's in such a ghastly state.

"I know little brother, I know," he's saying, whilst grabbing the hand he slapped away so they can put pressure on the wound together. The other reason is to prevent him from ramming his hand away again. Sam's pretty sure his body can't afford another stunt like that. He squeezes the hand underneath his reassuringly. He winces when Nathan tries to tug it back, because even he knows that hurts like hell. Nathan whimpers aloud and as if that doesn't yank on his heart strings.

"Shhh." He can't help himself when he instinctively smooths Nathan's hair back and plants a kiss on his forehead. If he was in his right state of mind, Sam's sure Nathan would push him away, wipe his forehead in embarrassment while looking around to see if anyone had seen, and whine about how he's not three anymore.

It's annoying though when Nathan seems to have a complete disregard about his previous instruction because he continues to speak.

"I'm...n-not d-dying...Sam."

But instructions be damned because that's putting a smile on his face. For once he is happy with Nathan's stubbornness, refusing to give up and all. If he keeps pushing through they just might make it.

"Yeah, yeah I know you're not," he nervously chuckles, "'Takes more than a bullet to kill you." It was a reminder for Nathan and himself. They've been through hell and they've managed thus far. They can push through this.

"Damn..agh...s-straight."

For a minute there was peace which was a miracle in and of itself because their current situation was anything but peaceful. He manages to stem the bleeding, and they're drawing closer and closer to land which means Nathan's gonna get patched up soon. Nathan keeps breathing and he'd go as far to say his demeanor seems a bit more calm compared to what it was a couple minutes ago. He's rubbing circles with his thumb through the soft hair at his temples, so that's probably why.

For some strange reason, Sam is reminded of the time Nathan broke his leg while trying to climb onto the roof of St. Francis by himself. He remembers visiting the eight-year-old in the hospital room, completely terrified when he heard the words "your brother's in the hospital." Their moms death was still slightly fresh in his mind, despite it having been three years. His entire left leg had been swallowed by the white cast. When he practically sprinted to the bed, Nathan looked down at his hands in shame as if preparing himself for a lecture. Poor kid had probably gotten fifty from the nuns, so rather than scolding him, Sam praised him for his bravery and made him promise to try again when he gets better, this time with Sam. He'll never forget the way those bright blue eyes lit up as if it were Christmas that day.

He remembers lying down on his bed one afternoon, reading a book about Mongol reign, when eight-year-old Nathan hobbled into the room with his crutches, tears in his eyes. None of the other kids had wanted to sign his cast and in that moment Sam had wanted to bash all of their heads in with a baseball bat. Sam told him to come here, patting the place beside him on the bed. He had thrown and arm around the boy's shoulders saying he knew just the thing. He propped Nathan's cast over his lap and took out a black marker. They drew funny pictures (taking turns of course) of their father, the nuns, and eventually each other. Nathan's drawing were rather impressive for his age. Personally, he couldn't draw stick figures even if his life depended on it. When Nathan smiled, the left corner of his mouth lifted in content, he knew it was a mission accomplished. They signed their names on what little white space they had left when they were finished.

"Sam," Nathan mumbles, snapping Sam out of his daze,"...d-don't feel..too..ugh.. good."

"Shit," he guiltily curses. Kid's not lookin' too good either. "How much longer Rafe!"

"We're almost there!"

He repeats the words in his head like a mantra and looks down at his lap to find Nathan's eyes closed again, only this time it's eerily different. This time, it feels as if he'll never open them. Panic swells within him like a ballon threatening to pop.

"Oh no you don't." He clamps his hand onto the back of Nathan's neck and he gives his head a little shake. "Stay with me Nathan," he pleads. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

He desperately gazes into Nathan's face as if looking hard's gonna make him wake up. He knows it's not, and hates himself for what he is about to do. He smacks the side of Nathan's face hard and his eyes fly open. Thank God.

"Stay with me, little brother." He tenderly places his hand back on his cheek. Damn. His face feels as cold as ice.

Nathan's grinning like an idiot and he doesn't know why for the life of him. He's lost it. It doesn't matter because it's causing him to grin like an idiot. "Something funny?"

Just when things are looking better, the damn boat decides to violently rock up and down now. Nathan's mouth opens in a soundless cry and Sam feels his gut do a somersault.

"Nathan?"

He's tapping the side of his face again and his breath hitches in his throat when Nathan's eyes roll to the back of his head. Everything stills.

" _Nathan!_ "

"What happened?" He hears Rafe shout.

"No, no, no, no, no." He's gripping his hair and tugging harshly at it with blood stained hands. Nathan...he-

"Sam! Snap out of it and communicate goddammit!"

Sam does. Because he's not one to settle and fate be damned because there's no way in hell he's losing Nathan. There's just no way.

"Did you call that Doctor?" He yells back, biting back a sob and resisting the urge to cradle Nathan's body to his chest.

"Yeah he's waiting for us at the apartment! Just stick to the plan!"

The plan. Nathan getting shot wasn't part of the plan. But even though Rafe was probably using them to his benefit, Sam's extremely thankful for him nonetheless. If it weren't for his contacts and cash, Nathan's chance of survival would've been none guaranteed.

The boat pulls up to the dock and Sam can see the black getaway car parked near by with their names on it. He's quickly putting an arm underneath Nathan's knees and another underneath his upper back. Sam tucks his chin over Nathan's head to prevent it from bobbing. In one swift motion, he lifts his little brothers limp body into his arms and he's sprinting towards the car with Rafe following beside them.

He manages to get the car door open and as soon as they're in he slams it shut. He hasn't let Nathan go and he's not planning to. His brothers face is so pale and he looks so damn young. Not that he isn't young to begin with; he's only twenty-three. He's too young. He screws his eyes shut, refusing to let any tears fall. Nathan's not dead, so it would wrong of him to mourn like he already is.

The tires screech with every turn at the amount of speed, and it feels like an eternity when they arrive at the apartment. Sam's climbing the steps as fast as he can. Of course it had to be on the second floor. He almost breaks the door down by slamming it open with his foot. The middle aged man sitting on the bed, whose presumably the doctor, jumps out of his skin when he enters with Nathan. Sam rushes to the bed with his arms still full. The Doc is talking in his ear but Sam can't hear him. It's when Rafe is practically ripping his vice like grip away from his brother when he realizes he hasn't let him go. His brain and body must still be on autopilot. He gently lays Nathan down, head first, onto the bed before being pulled back.

He tries his best not to hover over the Doctor's shoulder, knowing he needs his space to work. Rafe collapses into the chair beside the bed in exhaustion. Sam? Sam can't sit down even if you chained him to a chair. Not until he knows Nathan will make it. Not 'till he has proof. He's been relying on faith alone, but that's not enough. He needs facts.

"Sam, let the man do his work," Rafe's ordering tiredly when the Doctor's shooting him a pleading glare.

"I am, I am," he's muttering, stepping a couple inches back and speeding up his pacing.

"Look, why don't we step out for a cigarette break?"

It's such a tempting offer because he's under so much stress that he could smoke two packs in one sitting, but the thought of leaving the room, of leaving Nathan alone unattended, doesn't sit well with him. He's gets a little pissed at Rafe for even suggesting that he leave, but then quickly dismisses it. The man offers it for his benefit and it's not like he doesn't look like he needs one. He does. Desperately.

"No, it's alright," he shakes his head, "you go on without me."

Rafe runs a hand through his hair and sighs disappointedly.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He hears the door shut behind him, and he rubs his hands together nervously. He can't wait until all of this is over. He's got questions.

He clears his throat. "Señor, how is he?"

The Doctor probably speaks Spanish, but it's worth a shot. Not that he can't speak it himself, it's just he wants to speak a language he's comfortable with. Plus, keeping an eye out for grammatical errors while speaking the language is the least of his worries right now. Besides, Rafe did hire him, and if it's one thing Sam knows it's that Rafe's Spanish is as equally shitty as his Latin.

The Doctor is a small man in his early fifties. He has what people would call a kind face, but judging from experience, it means nothing to Sam.

"He has two bullet wounds and a graze," he says with surprisingly no accent at all.

He looks down at his feet and swallows with much difficulty. He waits for more information, but it doesn't come. He hesitates to ask the one vital question that hasn't stopped pestering his mind since they got here. Sam just hopes his voice doesn't quiver when asking it.

"Will he make it?"

Doc spares him a glance this time before returning to his work. The man hesitates to answer and he doesn't take that as a good sign.

"He might."

He inhales sharply at that, hoping for a he will instead, but he knows it's never been that easy for them. He looks at Nathan's face, all pale and dirty, and he wishes more than anything for those thick lashes to lift. He keeps his eyes on Nathan's face for the whole duration of the operation in hope for stirring, twitching, something.

When the Doc's done sewing the flesh together he helps him with the pressure bandages. He stands at the head of the bed, slipping his arms around Nathan's torso and then gently lifting him a couple inches off the bed. The man dresses the wound and Sam knows that's his final signature. He gently sets Nathan down, hand halting in the air when it wants to card through his hair again, but he lets it fall to his side because he remembers that they have company.

"Good news," Doc announces whilst snapping off his rubber gloves. "Both bullet wounds have clean exits, so there was no need to remove any bullets."

"And the bad news?" He finds himself asking and stuffs his hands into his front pockets.

"He's lost about two pints of blood."

"Jesus Christ." _Two pints._ He runs a hand through his hair. Those cigarettes are looking extremely tempting right now.

The man nods. He takes out of his black briefcase of what seems like more bandages. He folds them neatly and places them on the bed beside Nathan's feet.

"You'll have to bandage the wounds again once they become soaked through with blood. I suspect he will gain consciousness within a couple of days. It will take two to three weeks for his body to completely restore the amount of blood loss. Feed him foods with plenty of iron when he wakes up and keep him hydrated." He reaches in his bag again and hands Sam a bottle of pain killers. "Give him those when he wakes up."

Sam almost smiles, liking the choice of the word when. He offers his hand and the Doctor cracks a small grin as he shakes his hand earnestly.

"Thank you," he says, pouring all the gratitude he was feeling into those two words. If it weren't for this man, his brother would have been long gone. He doesn't dwell on the thought for very long.

The man simply nods, closing the black bag. He bids him goodbye and Sam watches him exit the room; a complete stranger who has done him an imperative service. He sighs and sets the bottle of painkillers on the small table beside his chair. His eyes travel to the still figure on the bed.

Nathan looks so frail, like any harsh contact can potentially break him. It's a strange, pitiful sight because he can normally take a punch, kick, slap, anything really. So to see him so unlike himself, usually indefatigable and bustling with life, now lying still, fragile as ever. It's a sight he hopes he'll never have to see again.

The guilt he had suppressed on the boat resurfaces. What the hell was he doing? He's supposed to be looking after the one family member he's got, not allowing him to get shot, emaciated- he's practically in a coma! Sam shakes his head at that thought, gazing up at the ceiling.

 _He chose this life-_ we _chose this life._

Yeah, they did choose this life, but that doesn't translate into get reckless or neglect your brother. It should've been his ass to get shot, but no. Nathan did what he should have done, and that's protect him. Why?

"'Cause I'm the older brother," he mutters to himself whilst scrubbing a hand over his face.

...

The first two days pass by like a breeze because he doesn't worry as much, knowing that Nathan needs time to recuperate from such an egregious physical blow. The third day leaves him uneasy because he was hoping Nathan would wake from his "nap" already.

It is currently the third day of Nathan's convalescence, and Sam desperately needs a shower. He ignores his phone on his way to the bathroom when it vibrates again. Rafe's calling him from his three day long cigarette break and Sam doesn't want to deal with him right now. He'll call him back when all this shit is over and done with. He's peeling off the blood stained shirt that sticks to his skin. He does his best to scrub all the blood, dirt, and grime off his face, body, and hair. He and Nathan had packed a duffle filled with emergency clothes and cleaning supplies as they always did after busting out of prison. After all, it would be unwise to go walking around town in a prison uniform after recently breaking out.

He's in and out of the shower within five minutes tops. Sam's gotta admit, the shower makes him feel less shitty now that he's clean and his mouth doesn't taste like crap. He wets a clean rag he manages to find in the kitchen, wringing it of excess water. He grabs the duffel that was in the trunk of the getaway car and returns to the bedroom. He gently cleans Nathan's face with the rag, cautious of some of the cuts and bruising on his face. He throws it over his shoulder momentarily and fishes out a grey long-sleeve shirt. Sam grabs his pocket knife from his back pocket and uses it to cut and free Nathan of the uniform, first cutting the button up then the undershirt. Good riddance. He tosses the shredded clothes to the corner and he grabs that rag again and wipes it gently under his neck, over his chest, and arms scrubbing off dirt and blood. It's not a complete makeover per se, but it will have to do for now.

When Sam's fitting the shirt over his head and getting his arms through the sleeves, mindful of the IV, he remembers his mom dressing baby Nathan with much difficulty. Nathan had always been a fussy baby and it was practically impossible to feed and dress him. Sam would know. When his mom and father were out working, Sam was taught how to look after the chubby brat. He had just turned six at the time. He chuckles sadly. Certain memories clearly have impeccable timing.

He plops in the chair when he's finished, stifling a yawn. After being awake for thirty-six hours, he had rested on the second day for about three hours. He isn't gonna lie- he's absolutely exhausted, but he can't sleep for reasons that are so evident now they don't need explaining.

Today's the day he inculcates to himself. Nathan will wake up today and they can return to their Avery business after a good weeks rest. He'll contact Rafe, they'll go to Scotland, find the treasure, and live the life they're meant to be living. Everything will be back to normal.

However, on the morning of the fourth day, he can feel his hope begin to slowly dwindle away. He knows it's gonna take Nathan longer wake up compared to most people, especially because they weren't, couldn't go to a hospital, but does it normally take this long? Sam's pretty sure it doesn't and that thought triggers something in his gut.

He feels the desperation begin to gnaw at his empty stomach. He springs out of the chair, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and trusty lighter, and heads outside unable to bear the pitiful sight any longer. Nathan, the bed, the IV, the fucking walls all feel like they are closing in on him and he can't take this shit anymore. He's leaning over the balcony now and it's like a fountain springing forth in the middle of the desert when he inhales that first puff. He rubs the corner of his eye in an attempt to elude sleep and exhales, smoke temporarily clouding his vision.

He doesn't know what he's gonna do if... Sam rests his heavy head on his forearm and his hand ghosts over the cross in his pocket. Maybe it's not too late.

...

It's the fifth day.

He's slumped in the chair, eyes burning holes in the ceiling. Nathan hasn't woken up. He knows the yet part is missing from that sentence, but whose he kidding. His throat clogs with raw emotion and his eyes settle warily on his brother.

He doesn't know what the hell he's gonna do if he looses Nathan. He's already lost their mom. Sam's not sure if he can handle loosing the only blood he has left. He squeezes his eyes shut and retrieves the golden cross from his front pocket. He runs his thumb over the edges remembering a time where it hung gracefully around his mother's neck. Now it lay pooled, barren of its proper owner, in his palm. His eyes burn and he bows his head and rests his elbows on his knees, pressing his palms together.

For the first time in years, he begins to pray. He's not a religious man- that much is clear, but at this point it's the only thing he can think of doing. It's the only thing even left to do besides waiting. He had his facts and now all he has left to choose is faith. If he doesn't, he'll be left with nothing. Sam can't afford being anchor-less and allowed to drift off in the waves of uncertainty. Besides, this was mainly for Nathan in the first place. He swallows his pride.

"L-Lord," he whispers, clearing his throat at the awkwardness. Man, it's been a long time. "I ask...for forgiveness of my sins and Nathan's, uh," he tightens his grip on the golden cross and for once in his life stops beating around the bush. "Lord, I-I can't lose him," he confesses. "I'm asking for a miracle, here. His life is in your hands, so..." He pauses again for a moment, swallowing thickly, his breath hitching. "Don't take him away from me. Please. Through Christ's name, I pray, amen."

He opens his eyes and looks up from his hands. He can't describe what he feels when he eagerly looks at his little brother's face, only to find that his eyes remain closed. Through all the kaleidoscope of emotions he's felt in the past five days- the dread, anger, concern, love, and even loss- he now feels numb.

Sam leans back into the chair crossing his arms and folding one foot on top of the other. The last thing he focuses on is the rise and fall of Nathan's chest before that too is gone. He closes his eyes, finally listening to his body's demands for rest. His head dips down to his chest and it's not long before he's sleeping, hand still wrapped around their mother's cross.

 _Tbc..._


	2. Sam's POV (Epilogue)

He almost springs out of his chair as if someone pours a bucket of ice cold water all over him. His pulse is skyrocketing and he scans the room for the sound that almost gave him a heart attack. When he doesn't see anything moving, he turns to see if Nathan is alright and-

 _Holy goddamn shit!_

He's awake. Nathan's eyes are open. Nathan is looking at him. Sam stops moving, blinking, breathing. He can't believe his eyes, but believe it or not, when the corner of his little brother's mouth lifts into that classic grin he's so fond of, Sam knows this is real. Nathan is real. His brother is awake!

The corners of his mouth lift with pure joy, and if he had rested for more than three to four hours each day for the past five days, Sam would jump up and fucking _dance_. His heart swells with happiness and he rejoices inside, thinking just how lucky he and Nathan are. If this isn't a sign that they are destined for something great, he doesn't know what is because not everyone could have survived something like this. It just proves just how damn special their purpose is on this earth.

"Hey," he says, scooting his chair forward to get a closer look at this miracle.

"Hey yourself," Nathan croaks with a cough. Man was it great to hear his voice again- however coarse.

He picks up the glass of water and meds beside the bed. He had the pills prepared just in case Nathan would wake up. Lo and behold he did. _Thank God._ If you had asked him 24 hours ago he'd say it was wishful thinking. Still, Nathan must be in all sorts of pain.

Nathan eyes the pills warily, but Sam ignores it. It's their childhood talking. Err the street knowledge talking.

"Open."

He leans forward, dropping the pills in his mouth and puts his hand on the back of Nathan's head, gently lifting him a few inches off of the bed. He brings the glass to his lips and tips it back when Nathan starts to gulp down the water fiercely.

"Easy, easy now." They try again. This time when Nathan slows his intake, he keeps the angle. "Don't wanna get yourself sick." _Again._

He sets the glass down when Nathan finishes and lowers him back to the bed.

"Agh..where are we?"

Ah. It's time for twenty questions. Not that he minds though. He's too damn ecstatic, he'll do anything right now.

"Rafe rented a place. We got the doctor to patch you up real nice."

He curiously lifts the hem of his shirt to inspect the damage. The wound clearly needs to be redressed. There's a reddish stain that's soaked through the white bandages. Nathan frowns.

"How long have I been out?"

The million dollar question. He wishes he can phrase it in a way where Nathan won't freak out, but he can't think of one.

"Couple of days," he says while rubbing the back of his neck and rummaging through the duffel that he put next to his chair for extra bandages. He hopes his answer will suffice for Nathan.

"Define 'couple'?"

Of course it doesn't. He sighs and pauses hesitantly before deciding to hell with it. He might as well know. Lord knows Nathan won't leave him alone until he has the answers to all of his questions.

"Five days."

His eyes widen. "Jesus Christ, Sam. That's almost a week!"

"Almost," he says whilst scrubbing a hand over his face. It had been the most hellish five days of his life, but it wasn't a week. He scoots his chair closer, temporarily leaving the bandages on his lap, and props his elbows on his knees and rests his chin on the tips of his fingers.

"You lost a lot of blood," he explains. His tone becomes more solemn when remembering how he had been sitting in a puddle of the stuff, practically drenched from head to toe with crimson. "Doc said around two pints."

Nathan is silent. His eyes are peering deep into Sam's as if closely studying him. Any other man would have shrunk uncomfortably under the inscrutable gaze. Sam then watches his eyes travel downwards and widen in shock.

"You thought I wouldn't make it," he hears him murmur.

Sam's eyes widen and he asks himself how the hell Nathan knew that when he traces Nathan's vision to their mother's cross he didn't know he was still holding in between his palms. Oh. That's why.

He pockets the cross and looks down at his hands in shame. He probably should've had a little bit more faith in Nathan, now that he's alright. He feels guilty for his lack of faith but doesn't harshly condemn himself for it knowing it is inevitable. He pushes the thoughts into the back of his mind. Now is the perfect time to redress Nathan's side. He's still pretty tired as shit not to mention he's starving. He doesn't want to think about all this all over again.

He picks up the bandages off his lap. He hooks an arm under his brother's back lifting him slightly just so he can unwrap the wound. Silence dominates the room once more until Nathan shatters it.

"I'm sorry."

He stills. His eyes snap to Nathan's not quite expecting to hear an apology of all things. Just how selfless and compassionate could Nathan get? He swallows guiltily again. As if he deserves it.

He shrugs it off his attention returning back to the task at hand. "Wasn't your fault." If anything it was his. "It's not like you shot yourself."

From here, Nathan seems to completely lose it by rambling a list of reason as to why this was all supposedly his fault. Sam isn't having it- any of it.

"Yeah, but if I hadn't picked a fight with-

"Nathan-

"that asshole then Vargas wouldn't have found the cross."

"Na-

"Or if I had been a little bit more quicker, then none of this crap woul-

" _Nathan._ "

His stern tone does the trick because he ceases his rambling. Nathan slumps back against the pillows and hisses at the stupid move. He watches him bow his head and once again Sam is reminded of the little boy in the white cast in the hospital room, preparing himself for disappointment. The sight alone makes his heart ache.

"Look at me," he orders, continuing when blue-grey eyes meet his. "First of all," he says slowly in effort for Nathan to grasp every point he's trying to make, "none of that was your fault. If anything you were the one who pulled me up fast and shielded me-

"But-

"No, Nathan. It is what it is." He pats the center of his stomach away from is wound reassuringly. "Point is, it's in the past. You can't afford to get overworked by it right now, aright?"

He watches him nod drowsily. Nathan rubs his eye with the palm of his hand as if to ward off sleep while stifling a yawn. Sam chuckles at the adorable childlike gesture. Nathan does nothing to help his own image when he glares at Sam like a petulant child.

He starts to wrap the bullet wound with fresh bandages. He lightly slaps Nathan's hands away when he wants to help. He's got this. He gives the wound one final tug to tighten and hold it in place, but elicits a painful groan from Nathan.

"Sorry, sorry," he pulls Nathan's shirt back over his handiwork, giving his stomach two gentle pats.

"Thanks."

"Yeah don't mention it."

Nathan's doing that analyzing thing again as if he was some sort of clue to be examined.

"Is Saint Dismas with you?"

He stares at him for a moment knowing he's not gonna like his answer.

"No."

"What? You mean it's with _Rafe_?"

"Yes, it's with Rafe. I had my hands a little full with you at the time to be worrying about where the damn cross is."

It comes out a little harsher than expected, but maybe it's the lack of sleep and the stress from barely getting away with their lives talking. After all the shit that's happened recently, the last thing he needs is a lecture from Nathan.

"You realize he can be off to Scotland by now."

"Not this again," he sighs, slumping back into the chair.

"Oh c'mon. You really can't picture Rafe doing something like that?

"Hey, if it weren't for Rafe you wouldn't be sitting here on your ass and complaining right now."

"Excuse me?" Nathan says offendedly, taken aback. He almost regrets saying it.

"Why even kill Vargas, huh? Why not cut him out of the deal when we were out of there? No Sam, If it weren't for your psychotic _boyfriend_ -"

"Hey!-

"-I wouldn't have been shot!"

He feels a headache blooming and pinches the bridge of his nose. This is ridiculous. How many times must they have this damn conversation?

"What do want from me Nathan?" He asks tiredly.

He crosses his arms feebly. "For it to be just the two of us again."

"Wha- are you jealous?"

He takes a moment.

"He doesn't deserve it and you know it, alright. This was meant to be our thing. _We_ are supposed to finish this."

"I understand that Nathan," he says softly, glad they've both calmed a bit down. "But Rafe has the connections and cash. We're talking buying property, supplying transportation and equipment here. Without him, we _can't_ finish this."

He knows he's won the argument by the way his brother sinks further down into the covers. A pout permanently glues itself to his face. Hey, at least he has the will and energy to fight.

Nathan's sneakily tugging at the bandages and that sort of irks him.

"You better leave that shit alone."

He smoothes a hand over his stomach.

"Can I see it?"

He follows his line of sight and it takes Sam a second to realize that Nathan's talking about their mother's cross. He knows it's an attempt to distract him, but he chooses to take the bait anyway.

"Oh, yeah sure." He takes the golden cross out of his pocket it and plants it in Nathan's hand.

He watches his brother drowsily run his thumbs over the gilded cross, tracing its edges and examining it carefully like it's a rare, precious artifact. Which it kinda is. Nathan opens his mouth to say something, but immediately closes it. It's alright though. He knows Nathan remembers.

He carefully hands it back to Sam. He plucks it out of the outstretched hand and puts the necklace back into his pocket.

"Get some rest."

Nathan snorts. "I'll go to sleep once you take your own advice."

He rolls his eyes and brings out the old motto.

"Yeah well do as I say, not as I do."

Nathan rolls his eyes in return. "Will you ever stop saying that?" He tries to sit up or at least adjust his position, but he must've moved something he shouldn't have because he's hissing in pain.

"Nope. And your gonna keep hurting yourself if you don't stay put."

He crosses his arms, weakly. "I'm serious, Sam. You look like hell. You need just as much shut eye as I do- if not more."

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. He hasn't had the chance to look at his reflection in the mirror, but he didn't think it would be that bad. He doesn't need to be told twice, though. "I'm fine, Nathan. You just focus on recovering."

"Fine then. No deal."

He sighs again, completely annoyed and yet happy to have his brother's stubbornness back. Nathan's as hard headed as they come, so the only way to achieve peace is to momentarily agree to whatever it is he wishes. Unless it's something completely ridiculous such as asking for his pack of smokes.

"Alright alright. I'll get some shut eye."

Nathan raises his brow incredulously. "Swear?"

Is it possible to sigh more than fifty thousand times in one day?

"I swear-

"I'm serious."

"Jesus Nathan, alright!" He cries exasperatedly. "Now would you shut up and go to sleep?"

He's settling back further into the bed. "If I find out you didn't honor your part of the deal, I'm gonna kick your ass," he mumbles tiredly.

He laughs, a part of him knowing that Nathan's partly kidding. Sam leans in and pulling his covers up to his chin, and once again he's flooded with such immense joy he's surprised that he doesn't suffocate.

"Smartass," he mutters under his breath.

He catches Nathan smirking and he knows the smug little brat must've heard him. He smiles while carding his hand through those soft brown strands. After all the shit they've been through in the past five days, the fact that he almost lost Nathan by the skin of his teeth, he doesn't blame himself when leans forward and brushes Nathan's hair back while planting a warm kiss on his temple. A small smile settles on his lips when he gazes fondly down at the tranquil sleeping form. His fingers dip back into his pocket and coil around the golden cross in thanks.

"Night, little brother."

* * *

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OHH! SO MANY FEELS! I LOVE MY BABIES!

But seriously you guys, I LOVE U ALL! I am amazed at the amount of positive feedback I've gotten from you guys. I'm so so so very thankful. Especially for you, Cozy Shadow!

My utmost respect and thanks to all who have read/reviewed/followed/ and favorited!

On a side note, you may have noticed slight differences in areas where Sam's POV and Nate's POV are supposed to be the same. That is because I have noticed new things while writing Sam's part of the story that are just...better. So, I'm planning on re-updating Nate's POV. I apologize for any errors you've encountered along the way. I'm still developing lol.

P.S leave me some suggestions/prompts for future fics!

Centuries-Past, out.


	3. Nate's POV

Brothers Keeper- NATE

Disclaimer: I do not own Uncharted 4.

Warning: a bit of swearing and some blood, but I don't think it's anything too graphic.

Thanks so much for reading, you guys. ILY

Imagine being stabbed in the side with a dull, hot knife and someone twisting it slowly again and again. That's basically a gun shot wound in a nutshell. In all his life he's never really been shot before. Shot at, yeah, but the worst he's ever gotten is a couple of bullet grazes. Nate guesses there's a first time for everything though. He doesn't know exactly how long it's been, but Nate's sure all the shock and adrenaline from the break outs worn off because that crap starts to _hurt_.

It has been another close call. Personally, Nate thinks they've had one too many with Rafe being on board. It's one thing to be excited while on a job, but becoming impatient leads to sloppiness which then exposes them to unnecessary risks (insert his gun shot wound here) that could have been avoided if you simply hadn't _shot a damn prison guard._

The first thing he sees when he groggily opens his eyes is his brother. He could sigh in relief in this moment if he didn't have such trouble breathing through the pain. It's as if someone lifts copious amounts of weight off his shoulders and chest because he's immensely overjoyed to see that Sam made it out all right. He can finally dismiss the apprehension of finishing the job without his brother. It's a well-founded fear that never truly leaves him alone. However, in their line of work, that particular fear is anything but irrational and there's all sorts of risky possibilities that could happen by hopping from prison to prison in search for clues. Not to mention breaking out of a Panamanian jail with at least fifty armed guards chasing you, but man does it feel good to prove that fear, the thought of losing his brother, wrong. As he always says: better him than Sam because Sam's all he's got. Plus Sully.

Sam's eyebrows are pinched together in anxiety and his eyes are wide with concern. Some bruises and minor cuts mixed in with a little dirt encompass his face and some strands of his wet hair from the cliff dive are plastered to his forehead.

Speaking of the cliff dive, he doesn't remember much of it other than the sensation of falling, screaming, and his heart practically stopping. All he knows is that as soon as his body made contact with the water, he blacked out from the ineffable pain. Sam must've dragged him off the cliff...

Suddenly, his entire world rocks up and down and the hot, burning pain in his right side heightens. He is unable to smother the cry that escapes his lips at the sudden shock of intense pain from the rocking motion of whatever the hell they were on- probably a boat, no, most definitely a boat. A hand cards through his hair as if to soothe his distress.

"Shh, you're okay Nathan. You're okay."

"Okay" his ass he wants to retort, but all he can do is grind his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut in effort not to scream from pain. He tries to only focus on the hand gently carding through his hair and not the hand pressing a towel, or a shirt, or something hard into his right side in an attempt to probably stop the bleeding. Because he can feel a wet sticky substance oozing out of that one place it shouldn't from his body.

Honestly, he's not even surprised that he has ended up this way- all shot and banged up, bleeding out on his brothers lap. Lord knows he's pulled off so much crap its a goddamn miracle he hasn't died yet. A chuckle dies in his throat. He guesses the famous Drake luck is finally running out.

"S-Sam," he manages to grunt out through the burning pain, "whe-

"Shush Nathan, don't speak. Save your strength." Sam's always doing that, shushing him, and he wants to shush him back, but he is trying so damn hard not to make a sound. He guesses his head is pillowed on Sam's lap judging from the angle that his brother's looking down at his face. And Jesus, from the looks of it he's never seen Sam on the verge of loosing his cool like this, and judging from his glossy eyes, erratic breathing, and his trembling voice, Nate would say he's lost it.

"Just try to stay awake, alright?"

Instinctively, his hand shoots out to grip the arm that presses down harder on his wound and grinds his teeth harder to stifle another scream. The burning sensation intensifies every time he does that.

"I have to stop the bleeding," Sam assures him.

He knows this of course, but it hurts, by God, it hurts so damn much that he wishes he could push his brother away, and he does. Nate's ramming Sam's hand away from his side with the palm of his hand within the speed of light. When he succeeds, he almost pales at the sight of blood gushing out. His mind knows it's illogical, it's the dumbest thing he could have done for himself, and that enough blood loss can lead to death, but there's only so much pain his body can tolerate before switching to survival mode. It's instinctual, but instinctual or not, Sam isn't having any of his shit.

"The _hell_ are you doing? Stop!" Sam bellows. It is a stern authoritative voice that doesn't suggest obedience; it demands it.

It shocks him, really. Sam has always used that tone of voice whenever Nate has done something completely, and he really means incredibly, stupid because he can only recall a handful of times where Sam has used that tone. Which is surprising because Nate thinks he's done a lot of stupid things over the years.

"Hurts," he groans, and he's trying his hardest not to let any tears that prick his eyes spill. The last thing he needs is his pride to take a blow, no pun intended.

"I know little brother, I know." Sam's saying gently, anger abandoned, whilst grabbing Nate's hand so they can put pressure on the wound together. The hand on top of his squeezes reassuringly, but he's trying to tug his back. Big mistake. He accidentally tugs at the gun shot wound creating a sharp, white, hot pain that almost blinds him and he's praying that no one hears the pathetic whimper that escapes his lips.

He's being shushed again and sees his brother lean down and plant an affectionate kiss on his forehead whilst smoothing his hair back again.

"I'm...not d-dying...S-Sam," he manages to say in between short breaths at the alarming amount of affection Sam's displaying.

It isn't weird per se, Sam's his _brother_ for crying out loud, but he wasn't this affectionate since they were kids. When the brats, and even the nuns, at the orphanage crossed one to many lines with their comments and/or physical blows, or when he had a really shitty nightmare, usually about his Mom, Sam, and occasionally their father that left him quivering in the dark, sheets drenched in his sweat, Sam was always there to swing an arm around his shoulders, or to ruffle his hair, or to embarrassingly enough, plant a kiss on his temple just to annoy him, but it always secretly made him feel ten times better because having Sam around as a kid always made him feel important, needed, and, well, loved. He doesn't mean to sound like an angsty cheese-ball, but it's the truth. Those days when Sam was off doing a job, all he could do aside from reading, climbing, and drawing was to look out in hope for a flash of light or a gentle tapping against his window which all meant he got another visit.

Gradually though, Sam stopped being so attentive of him because naturally with age, Nate learned to thicken his skin. So much so that now it seemed like shit just rolled off of the brothers. The Drake's are a tough lot. They've seen and been through so many things and yet they live to shrug about it.

He's not complaining, though. Truth be told, it felt kind of...nice. He secretly misses hanging out like they used to sometimes because they almost always have their hands full with finding Avery's treasure, and if it isn't between that and surviving prison, Sam is frequently, uh, _occupied_ with Rafe. It was to the point that he almost thinks that finicky bastard is trying to drive a wedge between them or something. But maybe Nate is being a little too pathetically overprotective and, albeit, a little jealous...or maybe he was right from the beginning about keeping this Avery business between the two of them, so they wouldn't have to deal with crap like this.

Sam chuckles, but it's void of any humor and it sounds hollow. "Yeah, yeah I know you're not. 'Takes more than a bullet to kill you."

"D-damn...s-straight."

It's a habit of his to keep pushing through dire circumstances. He doesn't believe in the 'life's too hard' crap. They are too close to give up now. They have so much more to accomplish together. So many more answers to seek. He's not giving up now.

However, despite his determined will, black spots dance around his vision and it seems like the stinging, burning pain in his side will never fade. He needs medical attention and he needs it fast. He doesn't know how much longer he can hold on, and that thought scares the crap outta him.

"Sam," he mumbles,"...d-on'..feel..t.. g-good."

"Shit! How much longer Rafe!"

"We're almost there!"

It's distant, but he hears it. Just a bit longer. He can sleep 'till then, right? Help pass time...

"Oh no you don't." He feels Sam clap a hand on to the back of his neck and he gives his head a little shake. "Stay with me Nathan. C'mon, open your eyes. Look at me."

His eyelids feel extremely heavy when he tries to lift them. He must have had them closed for too long for Sam's liking because he feels a stinging smack against his left cheek and the shock from the sudden harsh contact helps him open his eyes. The word 'jerk' dies on his lips because he's lying if he says that doesn't leave him feeling a little betrayed.

He gazes up into those concerned hazel eyes, and when Sam places his warm hand against his flushed cheek where he struck him, it takes every single ounce of his will power not to shut his eyes at the apologetic touch. He can't help it. He's just so damn cold and his brothers hand is so, so warm. The fact that his clothes are drenched in water doesn't help either.

"Stay with me, little brother."

There it is again. Little brother. Who knew Sam is such a sap?. Heh, soft ball Sam. Who knows? It's probably the cigarettes.

Sam must've took his cheeky small grin as a good sign because he's smiling anxiously. "Something funny?"

He can't respond because when the boat rocks up and down brutally once more, his vision swims completely.

"Nathan?"

It hurts to hear Sam sound so damn scared which in turn makes him fearful. It sounds so foreign because Sam always keeps his cool. Knowing that he is the one to probably traumatize his brother after today, hurts. Truth be told, everything hurts at this point. The agonizing burn in his side becomes too steep of a mountain for him to climb, and he's finding himself dangerously slipping away. Terror shoots from the center of his chest up to his brain, inundating him completely. He doesn't want to die. With that final thought, Nate closes his eyes.

" _Nathan!_ "

He still feels like complete and utter shit when he finally wakes up, but it's a hell of an improvement compared to what he felt when...well, he doesn't know when exactly. Nate slowly opens his eyes and he immediately scans the room. He's in a bedroom and judging from the lighting, Nate would say it's night. It's a pretty small room with pastel orange colored walls and a dusty old dresser in the left hand corner, but he'll take anything over his dirty, humid, grey cell. Plus, it's nice not to have bed springs dig into his back, so it's all good.

His eyes settle on the sleeping figure seated at his right. Sam looks like hell. The bags under his eyes are so dark they look like shiners. His chin is to his chest and Nate already feels sympathy for his neck. Sam has always been lean due his height, but the evident weight loss did nothing to enhance his appearance. He most likely had nothing but cigarettes for lunch. Nate himself has probably become a little too scrawny as well because prison food isn't exactly five-star quality.

He feels extremely weak and his side stings, but it's nothing compared to the unfathomable burn he felt on the boat. He's just grateful to be alive. He folds the olive colored blanket down to his hips. He notices his change of clothing when he grabs the hem of his grey long sleeved shirt and lifts to inspect the damage.

His right side is bandaged up neatly and he's slightly displeased to see that the white bandage is stained with a bit of crimson. He wonders just how many bullets his body sustained, where the hell are they, how long has he been asleep, and exactly how much blood did he loose. It's the first time he notices an IV hooked up to his arm and he has a sudden temptation to rip it, but Nate knows that'll piss off Sam to the point where he'd wish he were unconscious again. Hell hath no fury like a brother scorned. He tries to sit up, but his arms feel jello and his side seizes up like a bitch. Bad idea.

"Crap," he grunts and sinks back into the bed.

Sam bolts awake so fast it's a miracle he doesn't fall off the chair. He watches him quickly scan his surroundings for any potential threat before locking eyes with Nate. Sam just gapes at him in silence for about what feels like five minutes straight. This is the perfect time to squeeze in a joke about his handsome demeanor, but there's something unnerving about the fact that Sam's looking at him like it's some miracle that he's awake. Then, Sam smiles and he can feel the relief practically radiating from his entire being.

"Hey," he says, scooting the chair a little closer to the bed in amazement.

Nate half-grins weakly. "Hey yourself," he croaks, before clearing his throat. Man is it dry.

Sam picks up a little tin tray with pills in them and a glass of water next to him as if reading his mind.

"Open."

He eyes the pills warily at first out of habit, but reluctantly obeys. Sam plops them into his mouth and places a hand on the back of Nate's head and lifts gently, bringing the glass to his lips.

"Easy, easy now." Sam says when he starts to greedily gulp down an inordinate amount of water. "Don't wanna get yourself sick."

He blushes and doesn't have the energy to tell Sam that he can managed without his help. He knows it's pointless to argue with the man when he starts to fuss. He's lost that argument countless of times in the past.

"Agh...where are we?"

Sam sets the glass down and lowers him back to the bed. "Rafe rented a place. We got a doctor to patch you up real nice."

Nate frowns. _Rafe_ rented a place? He doesn't know how to feel about that. "How long have I been out?"

Sam rubs the back of his neck, not answering him immediately. "Couple days."

His frown deepens. "Define a "couple"?"

A hesitant pause. "Five."

"Jesus Christ, Sam. That's almost a week!"

"Almost." Sam scrubs a hand over his face and rests his chin on the tips of his fingers. He looks completely exhausted. "You lost a lot of blood. Doc said around two pints."

Nate's brows furrow. Something isn't right here. He observes the almost defeated posture of his brother, the distant tired eyes, and his eyes finally travel down to the golden necklace cross that belonged to their mother that Sam was holding in between his hands. _Oh._

"You thought I wouldn't make make it." He whispers in astonishment.

Sam snaps his attention back to him and when he sees what exactly Nate's staring at, he pockets the cross. He waits for an answer, but he doesn't get one. Ah _crap_. The fact that his brother says nothing to deny his claim makes him feel even more guilty. Sam is always the optimistic one, staying positive until they check every nook and corner. To have him cave in like that... Nate must've really given him a scare.

He sighs loudly. After a few minutes of silence, the guilt eats him up. Maybe he's been the reckless one. If only he'd been a little bit more careful maybe he could have prevented all of this.

He can't imagine what he put Sam through. Obviously, Sam will play it cool at this point, it's who he is, but Nate's always known there is always something more to Sam then he lets on. If the roles were reversed, Nate doesn't know if he could've taken it. Dragging Sam's limp body off the cliff and through the water, stemming his blood which must've been everywhere, and then waiting all that time for him to wake up knowing that he just might not. It hits him like a ton of bricks.

Sam picks up the bandages off his lap and slides an arm under his back, lifting him slightly so he can unwrap the wound. Despite having calloused hands, his touch is feather light and is as gentle and caring as can be. Nate swallows thickly.

"I'm sorry."

Sam shrugs. "Wasn't your fault. It's not like you shot yourself."

He's rambling before he can help himself.

"Yeah, but if I hadn't picked a fight with-

"Okay w-"

"-that asshole then Vargas wouldn't have found the cross."

"Listen Nath-

"Or if I had been a little bit more quicker, then none of this crap would've hap-

" _Nathan._ "

He shuts up. His hands suddenly seem more fascinating than Sam's face. He cant help but feel like a complete and utter burden.

"Look at me." It takes a while, but when he finally does, Sam resumes. "First of all, none of that was your fault, alright? If anything you were the one who pulled me up fast and shielded me-

"But-

"No, Nathan. It is what it is." Sam places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes reassuringly. "Point is, it's in the past. You can't afford to get overworked by it right now, aright?"

He nods drowsily. Sam's right. He can't beat himself up about it, but the guilt doesn't completely go away. He just feels uncomfortable for what Sam went through because of him. It was all because of him. Sleep beckons him, but he fights it with all his might because he can't rest with the knowledge that Sam hadn't slept for days with him being the reason why. He rubs his eye with the palm of his hand while stifling a yawn. He hears Sam chuckle and he glares at him. Smug bastard is getting a kick out of this.

Sam wraps his torso with fresh bandages. When Nate tries to help, he annoyingly yet lightly slaps his hands away. Sam gives the wound one final tug to tighten and hold it in place, and man did that hurt.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam apologizes hurriedly, and pulls his shirt down, patting his abdomen gently when he's finished.

"Thanks."

Sam slumps back into the chair, suppressing a yawn. "Yeah, don't mention it."

It suddenly dawns on him that he hasn't thought about the one thing that put them through all this work.

"Is Saint Dismas with you?"

Sam stares at him for a moment.

"No."

He can't believe what he hears. Okay, if it's not with them, then it must be with- oh _no_. No, no, no, no!

"What? You mean it's with _Rafe_?"

"Yes, it's with Rafe. I had my hands a little full with you at the time to be worrying about where the damn cross is." He says harshly.

A little bit of the guilt is back, knowing how much this means to them, what it means to Sam, and for Sam to forget about the one clue they have to find Avery's treasure and instead take care of him... He should be touched, but instead he's pissed. Maybe he's both.

"You realize he can be off to Scotland by now."

"Not this again," he sighs, running a hand over his face.

"Oh c'mon. You really can't picture Rafe doing something like that?"

"Hey, if it weren't for Rafe you wouldn't be sitting here on your ass and complaining right now."

It's a slap to the face. If it weren't for Rafe? If it weren't for _Rafe_?

"Excuse me?" He says offendedly, taken aback.

When Sam doesn't respond, he continues bitterly, feeling a bit betrayed that his brother defends Rafe over him, again.

"Why even kill Vargas, huh? Why not cut him out of the deal when we were out of there?" He doesn't let him answer and knows full well that his next words are full of bite. "No Sam, If it weren't for your psychotic _boyfriend_ -"

"Hey!-

"-I wouldn't have been shot!"

Silence for a moment. Then,

"What do want from me Nathan?" Sam asks tiredly.

He crosses his arms feebly. He's been waiting to say this for about two months now. "For it to be just the two of us again."

"Wha- are you jealous?"

The question takes him by surprise. He feels his face flush in embarrassment, but doesn't dare avert his gaze for fear Sam will know that he is. He takes a couple of seconds to think of a good answer, fast.

"He doesn't deserve it and you know it, alright. This was meant to be our thing. _We_ are supposed to finish this."

Nate applauds himself for his response because he knows that strikes a cord with his brother. But it's not like he's just saying these words to get what he wants and win the argument. Every word he utters is true.

"I understand that Nathan," Sam speaks softly, "but Rafe has the connections and cash. We're talking about buying property- supplying transportation and equipment here. Without him, we _can't_ finish this."

He sinks down further into his covers and tries not to sulk, unconsciously fiddling with his bandages. He knows Sam's right, but wishes with all his might that he wouldn't be. It isn't fair, but nothing about his life was.

"Hey, you better leave that shit alone."

Crap. He smoothes his hand over the bandages, shifting his attention to the cross.

"Can I see it?" He asks both out of curiosity and to distract Sam from giving him a lecture about his "handiwork." Thankfully, his brother takes the bait.

"Oh, yeah sure thing." He takes the golden cross out of his pocket it and plants it carefully into his outstretched hand.

He drowsily runs his thumbs over the gilded cross, tracing its edges and examining it carefully like the rare, precious artifact it is.

 _Mom._

There was never a day where he'd catch her without this cross. Not that he remembers much, but he does have key memories with and about it his mom. It's like a puzzle comprising her portrait, but some pieces are missing. For instance, he remembers her voice, but not her smell. He doesn't remember her hugs, but he remembers enjoying them. Above all else, he remembers his love for his mom.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it a moment after. What can he even say that hasn't been said a decade ago back at the orphanage? He carefully hands it back to Sam, not trusting himself with something as valuable as their mother's cross.

Sam pockets the cross. "Get some rest."

"I'll go to sleep when you take your own advice," he snorts.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah, 'well do as I say, not as I do.'"

It's his turn to roll his eyes. He's always hated that stupid motto. It's always Sam's sucky defense when he is wrong about something where Nate's right. What he's really saying is "I'm the older brother and you have to listen to me." It's starting to get old after ten years.

Feeling a bit restless, yet still fatigued, he tries to sit up a bit, but his side screams at him to stay still.

"Will you ever stop saying that?" he hisses.

"Nope. And your gonna keep hurting yourself if you don't stay put."

He crosses his arms feebly. "I'm serious, Sam. You look like hell. You need just as much shut eye as I do- if not more."

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I'm fine, Nathan. You just focus on recovering."

"Fine then. No deal."

Another sigh. "Alright alright. I'll get some shut eye."

Nate raises a brow incredulously. "Swear?"

"I swear-

"I'm serious."

"Jesus Nathan, alright!" He says exasperatedly. "Now would you shut up and go to sleep?"

He sinks back further into the pillows. "If I find out you didn't honor your part of the deal, I'm gonna kick your ass," he mumbles tiredly. He's partly joking. Partly being the key word.

Sam leans in and pulls his covers up to his chin. "Smartass," he mutters under his breath.

He smirks when he hears it, and closes his eyes when he feels a hand smooth back his hair and a kiss being planted on his temple...and that's better than any painkiller. He sighs contently and begins to drift off.

"Night, little brother."


End file.
